Leaves of Yellow, Skin of Blue
by Padfoot Reincarnated
Summary: Luna stops in the middle of the yard and lies on her back, playing idly with a mushroom sprung out of the ground. And because the ground looks softer than her bed, and because she is tired, Hermione sinks down beside her. LunaHermione femmeslash.


**More femmeslash. Luna/Hermione. Pure fluff, though, nothing bad. I think I've now written Luna with four characters--Harry, Draco, Ginny, and Hermione. Whaddya know. Enjoy!**

She teaches herself French out of an old, yellowing book; when really she should be looking for that El Dorado spell that will destroy a Horcrux.

And she would, except at the end of the day her eyes sting from squinting at tiny fading print, and her back hurts from sitting stiff all day. And then she notices that the tips of her fingers are swollen and red, and she wonders what it would be like to never read another word again.

So it's then—lying in a bed that isn't her own, feeling the ache in her muscle seep out into the mattress—that she whispers the shapes of the words. And then says them louder, because she likes the way they feel rolling off her tongue. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine herself in an elegant café, reading poetry and philosophy as Paris dims outside.

But the air in the room is stiff, and she can hear voices downstairs making plans for tomorrow, and she can hardly even breathe.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

There are people in and out of Grimmauld so often that she can hardly keep track of them; just that Ron and Harry are always there, holding subdued conferences in the corners.

(She catches Harry crying, once).

She hadn't expected it to be _easy_.

So she watches the others drift in and out—Neville and Luna and Dean—and she wants to grab them all and shake them and lock them up, because they're so _stupid_, and they're going to die, and she's sort of given up on idealism anyway.

Luna finds her in the library once—closes the pages without so much as a bookmark, and smiles at her.

"You look very pale, Hermione," Luna says.

And it's this—this unasked for kindness—more than anything—that tips the scale.

"I know," Hermione says, and lets her face fall forward, and cries.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

She nearly chokes to death one night.

It is simple. There is no one pressing a hand over her mouth, there is no struggle. It is just that she wakes up under the absolute certainty that she will be dead within a year.

She wants to scream. She can feel the back of her throat tighten, and her muscles are tense and ready to spring.

But she opens her mouth and nothing comes out, and she lifts up her arms and there is something heavy atop them and she can't move. She is paralyzed and voiceless and blind, and maybe she is already gone and buried, except that there is a sort of shrill ringing in the distance.

Then there are arms on hers, supporting her, holding her up, and she realizes the noise is her.

"Hermione!" Harry says. "Hermione!"

She shakes herself, and trembles against the pillows.

"Sorry, Harry," she manages to say. "Bad dream."

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

The next day Luna comes again, when Hermione is back in her mausoleum of books, and she doesn't smile quite yet this time.

"I think we should go outside," Luna says meditatively. Her hand on the back of Hermione's is small and transparent, blue veins showing beneath the skin. But Hermione follows her anyway.

It is late summer, and Hermione realizes with a start that she has not been outdoors since June. The sun is hot on her face, and her feet, which are bare, are stung by rocks and dry flower corpses.

But Luna stops in the middle of the yard and lies on her back, playing idly with a mushroom sprung out of the ground. And because the ground looks softer than her bed, and because she is tired, Hermione sinks down beside her.

Luna watches her thoughtfully. "I always wanted to go to Stonehenge," she says. "Someday. Maybe after all this is over, you can come with me."

Hermione almost laughs, because Luna has always believed everything, and she still believes there will be an end to all of this.

But—Luna is quiet, and she is not fierce about it—just silent, assuredly convinced.

"I think I'd like that," Hermione says.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

The next week when Luna comes, it's raining, so Hermione takes her up to the attic instead. There is one small window in the corner, so they crowd beside that and watch the yard grow lush and wet.

Luna points off into the distance (not so far off, really) where there's blue sky.

"What do you think that cloud looks like?" she asks.

Hermione studies it with a scholarly air. "I think it's a cumulus," she says finally.

And then Luna smiles. "Maybe," Luna agrees. "But couldn't it be the soul of a dead kingdom? Or a lost child, that drowned one day."

Hermione looked at it again. It looked sad.

"Maybe," she agreed.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

There are things she does with Luna that she would feel ridiculous doing with anyone else. She goes out into the rain without an umbrella, and squashes her toes into the mud beneath the puddles. She tries to turn a cartwheel like she hasn't done since she was six.

After Luna leaves, she comes inside to dry her hair. Harry finds her at the door.

"Hermione," he says, his voice urgent and low. "Hurry up. We need you. Lupin thinks he might have found something, but Ron and I are no use—we need _you_."

If she were a little bit younger, or maybe a few years older, she would stamp her foot and tell him no. But the circles under his eyes are as deep and dark as the ones under hers, and he should not be this pale, and he is her friend and she loves him.

"I'll be right there," she promises.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

She finds herself watching Luna, sometimes. A purely scholarly study. The precise shade of blonde of her hair—a fraying corn tassel. The way her eyes looked when she talks—like bluebell flowers brought to life.

Luna catches her once and smiles as if she knows exactly what Hermione is thinking, the most intimate bits of her soul.

She touches the pulse-point at Hermione's wrist, and the curve of her lips almost stops Hermione's breathing. Then Luna leans forward, and suddenly Hermione is being kissed, and she can smell books around her but what she tastes is Luna and what Luna is, is rain.

When she breaks away, she's crying a little. "I think I'm in love with you," she says.

Luna touches the side of her face with her gypsy hands. "It's alright," she says. "Because of course I'm in love with you, too."

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

It is several weeks later that she shows Luna the yellowing old French book, and points her to the first lesson. But Luna shuts it, and takes Hermione's hands in hers.

"Mon amour," Luna says.

Hermione smiles. "Mon amie," she answers.

**I'd love to hear your thoughts--the good, the bad, and the ugly. In case you didn't know, Mon amour is My love in French, and Mon ami is my friend. At least that's what I've been led to understand; if that's wrong please point it out!**


End file.
